His father built houses for a living. It never really occurred to Arnowski how much his father loved him. Nor was he accustomed to know how much his father worked. �Another hard day on the field� was not only a frequently heard interrogation from the Mother he adored, but also a conclusive statement, for his father, that would culminate his seemingly endless day of work. Work on the field was building houses for Venarkus, the Father of Arnowski. And it was tough work that would deem a person feeble, like a child crawling against a sandstorm in the desert towards a dimly lit tent off in the distance. Arnowski, a young boy of six, thought nothing about his father�s grueling workday. He didn�t know how the food got to his plate, he just knew that it tasted good and filled him up. He didn�t know that behind every bite he took there was a bead of sweat, a grunt, a gasp, a strain, a swipe of the brow, a splinter, a scrape, a dropped hammer, or a slip on the ladder. He ignorantly chewed with a smile on his face while his Father exhausted, could only smile and pat his son that he loved on the back. For maybe it was better that he could let his son enjoy life while he could, for there is a notable correlation between happiness and ignorance. He should let his son be happy, for a while, before he too would be a working man.

�Another hard day on the field?� Seria asked her darling husband. �Another day indeed� he tiresomely replied. Another day indeed it was, another day for what? An unheard of question thought many of times by almost every worker. They ignore it, they would never dream of pioneering the question verbally or fashioned in a manner that would anticipate a response. They work, every day, ignoring the question. Each ping of the hammer drives the question further from their consciousness. Their duties for being viable on earth are embossed in stone and could never be eradicated. So they work, every day, knowing their work would provide food and shelter for the ones they loved. That ambition would routinely be their repellent against the temptation to answer such an absurd question.

�Another hard day on the field?� Seria asked her darling husband. �Another day indeed.� Venarkus replied tiresomely. Another day indeed� �Daddy, guess what I did today in school?� Arnowski excitedly asked his father. Venarkus with a searing pain in his back walked away from his son to experience his pain alone in the other, darkened room. �Daddy, in school today we�� his Father interrupted him belligerently with a snap, �It doesn�t matter what you did in school today, because you�ll be just like every other sucker in America! Do you hear me, God damn worthless!� A silence became in the room where Arnowski and his mother stood, shocked. Arnowski bore a guilty face that hung with the shame of failing to make his father proud. Venarkus walked away with his shame too. His mother consoled him with her gentle hands rubbing his shoulders� the same hands he watched nights at a time cleaning the dishes from the plate in which gave him the fuel to love another day. �What did I do Mom?� Arnowski insisted. �You didn�t do anything honey, your Father just had a bad day.� Moments later Venarkus apologized and reassured his son that he did nothing wrong then listened to his eventful day at school.

�Another hard day on the field?� Seria asked her darling husband. �Indeed.� He tiresomely replied. He looked at his family, and sat waiting for his dinner. He starred at the clock, and he listened to it taunt him. With each tick becoming louder in his mind he drifted off into thought. A strange thought where he would be chasing time. The clock�s maniacal shuffling caused a stagnation of presumed time. A dank, silent, timeless place he found himself in. A world where no body worked, they just sat and thought. A world of perpetual and often frightful silence he now lay upon. An answer from a shimmering light prevailed from an indescribable darkness, moments before he heard his wife calling him for dinner and snapped out of it. Venarkus could barely remember his daydream but he was puzzled by what it meant. The shimmering light explained something, something intricate and complex with its simplistic glow. He sat and ate idly and returned to his bed.

�Another hard day on the field?� Seria asked her darling husband. �Another day indeed.�
He replied tiresomely. The day had begun fresh with a morning cup of coffee and ended with a gloomy beer. His son witnessed the slow deformation of his Father�s person. He was a dying, withering flower in the bed of capitalism. The question arrived that time, cunning and sneaky, a fox of a question. Why? Why, because I love my family? Why, because I love myself? What�s the point really? The answer came almost as diligent as the question�. �Honey, your dinner is getting cold� Seria insisted her husband should eat. �Thank you� he wearily replied.
They ate in silence, the three, in their quiet, humble abode quaintly built for a bachelor or widow.
�So how was your day honey?�
�Rough�
�Rough, but fulfilling.� She demanded.
�Not as rough as washing dishes and making beds, I am sure.�
�Excuse me� Well, I do my part in this family.�
�What, and I don�t? You try slaving in the sun for 9 or 10 hours a day.�
�I slave too you know, I am a worker too.�
�Ha, some worker. You clean dishes and make beds.�
�I vacuum, I go shopping��
�Yeah, with my money.�
�I go shopping, I slave over a hot stove, I mail the letters, I clip coupons, I help Arnowski with his homework, I clean, I work and work to keep you happy, and this is the thanks I get?�
�Where�s my Damn thank you?�
�Thank you, there are you happy?�
Venarkus threw his fork down and walked away from the table, Arnowski sat quietly with his face hung towards his empty plate.
�Why are you guys fighting?� Arnowski softly inquired.
�Why��

�Another hard day on the field?� Seria asked her darling husband. �Another Day indeed.�
His hands that day were blistered from working, his feet were swelling and his head was pounding. All that work for the pay he got didn�t seem enough. A lower middle class family struggling by. What were the blisters for? The blisters meant money. The money he used to stay alive, to keep his family happy. The money to buy clothes and gasoline for his truck so he could go to work.

�Why am I suffering? I need a better job but this is all I can do. My life is slowly fading away and the memories are haunting me of my future. They say life is cheap but living is expensive� is it? Life is cheap because living is expensive I would say. O� I am thankful I have my family, I live in a country where I can be relatively free, I am appreciative of the things I have� But there is one thing that seems to be missing, like the eerie feeling when traveling that you neglected an item of value, or my drunken friend the stove who at any time could burn down the house because I left the liquor bottle on. That eerie feeling of uncertainty� But this feeling is certain. What is life really when all you do is live to work another day? Just so I can be healthy and eat, just to work another day? It�s a cycle that means something, and I know what it is. It�s a cycle of work and life that keeps me alive, but dead as well. What�s the point of being alive if you never have the chance to live?�

A dangerous question indeed, and the answer known by all, organized in his thoughts. It�s the malevolent question of �why� with the answer of �what�. They knew it all through the coal mines, through the Valley Forge, through the oil rigs and the factories; they knew it through the mid-west, through the coastlines of California to the industrial paradise of the eastern cities of Jersey, New York, Philadelphia and Baltimore. They all knew it, but it was a secret well kept. A compromise made by workers and business owners that would compensate for loyalty. �Where would you be without us?� On the street begging for money, that�s where, and every worker, breaking their backs and giving their lives, knew this and agreed to the unspoken contract.

�Another hard day on the field?� Seria asked her darling husband. �Another hard day indeed, and for what?�
Over the years, working the same job, �a man is entitled to a hearty barrage of critique and berating of their jobs� claims sixty-five year old Frankton, a long time neighbor of Venarkus,
�It�s only natural.�
�For what dear?� Seria demanded puzzled.
�I don�t understand why we have to live like this, is there something better?�
�Venarkus, you know you�re lucky to have gotten that job and for Jusi to let you keep it for all these years.� Seria remarked.
�Well, I�ll say this� Frankton said standing by the kitchen door. �You�re better off saving up now so you can retire.�
�I can�t retire!� Venarkus shouted. �Don�t you realize I haven�t the money for that?�
�Well, I am sorry Venarkus, but I am sure things will work out.� Assured Frankton.
�No, they will not work out! I am sick of this all!�

A breakdown of a person comes, maybe sooner for others, but it comes. The implacable will to work to support the family one loves, however humbling, rejoicing, or chivalric, can lead to a man�s breakdown. It�s the oxygen that keeps us alive but could kill us just as fast. It�s an insurmountable dilemma one faces when they selflessly give. The passion to give to the ones you love and to see them happier than you are, is a respectably noble trait. One could only hope to reside and maintain their lives with one who gives so much, expecting so little in return. But the breakdown, is a shadow, a shadow that has been dormant, collecting from the darkness of routine and perseverance for years waiting to supersede the brilliant acceptance of accomplishment. It�s the shadow that reflects the deeds of a person and brings them a gift basket of betrayal and heartache. The breakdown brings forth a shadow, but brings forth a greater horror as well. For routine, and acceptance bring about continence and understanding. The mystery of life revolves in that routine� if one should defy the cycle, shouldn�t one have defied the mystery? For the greater horror lies as truth. When you break the shell of routine, the fruit of truth emerges......

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